Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8

by Jacob Falling

  “You cried out,” Twyla frowned as she neared the bed. “And you tossed and turned the whole time you slept.”

  Adria yawned and stretched as she rose and stepped to the shuttered window, playing at their latch, half-intending to open them to the cool air. “The last time I truly slept I was... well, in rather different surroundings.” She smiled.

  “It’s too quiet for you, isn’t it?” Twyla went to Adria’s wardrobe, looked back over her shoulder with feigned seriousness. “You should have a falcon sent down, to keep you company. Or maybe we could fetch you a wolf, or perhaps even a bear?”

  “Oh, of course I’ve grown too wild…” Adria smirked wryly. “I shall simply have to grow accustomed to sleeping indoors. I might have thought to bring my pet elk, to keep me warm at night. But really, he’d never fit through the doorway. And the stairs?” Adria rolled her eyes.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t welcome the duty of bathing him,” Twyla replied. She pulled out two or three pieces of garment, eying Adria speculatively. “I hope something here besides your sleeping gown fits. When was the last time you wore a proper dress?” She hesitated. “For your status, I mean...”

  “I took no offense,” Adria smiled, waving the comment away. “And... well, I believe you were present the last time I wore a proper dress.”

  Twyla’s best choice, it seemed, was a violet cotte, embroidered in silver, with a close fitting bodice, and overly full skirts. The girl bit her lip apologetically. “Your father’s color.” She might have said more, but closed her mouth again, and turned the dress around a few times, awaiting decision.

  Adria approached and lifted the arms of the dress. It was overly heavy and overly long. She would have to lift the skirts merely to take a few steps. “This is… new?” she mused. “The style is changing. More elegant, with less concern for utility.”

  Twyla nodded. “After the current Somanan fashion. Which seems odd, considering how warm it must be in the south.” Twyla’s own dress was somewhat less substantial, but then her status allowed generally for more practicality.

  “I do not suppose my own garments will be clean...” Adria ventured.

  Twyla frowned. “Lady...”

  “Oh, I know,” Adria sighed, grinning. She traced the silver threads entwined about the buttons of the sleeve. “Hafgrim might mistake me for game, and chase me about the halls for sport. Nonetheless...”

  Twyla nodded, grimacing as she realized Adria’s other hesitation. “Nonetheless, he might be equally offended by a display of colors.”

  Adria agreed without a word.

  “We shall find you something neutral, maybe?” Twyla replaced the questionable garment and continued her search. “Gray, perhaps… though save for mourning periods, color is still ubiquitous of dress.”

  From beyond the window, Adria heard the sound of horns. Then, soon after, the hoof beats of perhaps a dozen horsemen. The shouts of men.

  “He returns,” Twyla said, now fishing in the furthest reaches of the wardrobe, her head and arms swallowed by the front row of garments.

  With a deep breath, Adria sat within the oriel, unfastened and opened one shutter of her window. At just the right angle, the parchment tightened with the wind, like a sail, and Adria barely kept it from smacking against the inner wall. She adjusted it until it fought her a little less, and she leaned her head over the embrasures of the lip to look down.

  Far below, the horsemen, all Knights of Darkfire, were reigning in. Squires dismounted first, while the horses stamped their excess of energy. Adria could see her brother in the fore, the ring crown of his helm just visible from her height.

  Even from this distance, it was obvious that Hafgrim had changed as much, if not more, than Twyla had. His build had increased dramatically, and filled the mail, tabard, and cloak of his station well. His violet plume danced as he brought his dark steed to a halt.

  He seemed comfortable in the saddle, now, and held real command over his horse — a skill he had not accomplished before Adria had left. He removed his helm while still in the saddle, and his squire took it from him. Hafgrim shook out his hair, and mopped his forehead with the back of his leather gauntlet.

  He has become handsome, Adria realized, with small surprise. She would never have described him so as a child. He dismounted with ease and without aid, and the steed gave no protest. His squire handed him the sword from his saddle, and Hafgrim strapped it onto his belt himself, beneath the white sash he had recently earned.

  “He is... the very picture of a knight,” Adria said.

  “The ceremony was beautiful, like a holiday,” Twyla said, a little wistfully, as she held up a couple more dresses for Adria to wordlessly refuse. “A few dozen young men were titled then and took their sash and standard. Hafgrim was the first among them — the first to recite the Tenets and the Code, the first to swear himself to King, to Heiland, and to the One-Who-Comes.”

  Adria frowned at the words, but then smiled with a little pride at the image.

  “It was quite an affair, with as many as attended,” Twyla continued, as Adria turned and frowned at the next offered dress. “So many wanted to be knighted along with the prince. Some had delayed the year before, and others managed to take their oaths early. It was exhausting just listening to all the recitations.”

  “It is no simple matter living one’s life bound by oaths,” Adria said, half to herself. Louder, she said, “Hafgrim must have been proud.”

  “They gave him a glorious fanfare, and Taber knighted him personally. She bowed before him, and she named him ‘Sir Hafgrim.’ Everyone cheered, then, and it made the oaths of the other knights seem a bit... well… anti-climactic.”

  Adria watched as the squires led the horses away, and the Knights lined up for drills as Hafgrim joined them.

  Taber bowed, Adria thought. Unusual... but then, a prince honored by a Matron Sister, and not a king.

  Aloud, she said, “She called him ‘sir?’ She did not crown him, or give him further title?”

  “No,” Twyla responded. “But you know the custom. He must prove himself upon this first duty before being named heir. That tradition, at the least, has not changed.”

  Adria nodded vaguely. Below, the Knights, in two rows, moved to each new command in unison. Adria had seen these motions before, and realized that they fought not too differently from this, even in the wild. Predictably, methodically... Advance, slash, parry, thrust...

  But they were strong, and their confidence apparent. Am I to stand among them? Adria wondered. Will I be allowed, even? Will I have to demand?

  Steward Falk appeared below and approached Hafgrim. The prince stepped out of rank, and they spoke for a moment. Hafgrim turned from profile, then looked up and found Adria’s window. It was too great a distance to tell if he saw her there, but he must surely see the open shutter, at least. In a moment the steward bowed and backed away, and made his way back across the yard, as Hafgrim returned to the drill.

  “He has refused to meet with me,” Adria said.

  “Surely not.” Twyla returned to the wardrobe, and dangled another garment from her hands, twirling it hopefully. Then she saw Adria’s assurance. “How do you know he has refused?”

  Adria turned and sighed, and considered the colorless garment Twyla held before her, finally shrugging and waving a vague assent. “He has refused... because he can.”

  By the time she was dressed for dinner, Adria’s assumptions were confirmed by a footman at her door.

  “Hafgrim will not be able to attend you tonight,” Twyla relayed, frowning.

  “I see.”

  “He will, however, await your presence in the harbor at dawn, beside where The Echo is docked.

  Adria nodded.

  Then Twyla brightened. “You are to be dressed for the sea.”

  Adria still nodded, but smiled then as well.

 
“Well, Twyla…” she sighed, looking down at her dress dismissively. “I do hope you have some idea what that means.”

  As Twyla laughed and wandered into the wardrobe again, Adria realized the more crucial meaning of the request.

  It means that he remembers.

  Part Six

  Dance and Echo

  Exile to Exile

  Adria awoke more suddenly than she would have liked, to the sound of rustling chain mail. As she blinked to awareness, she frowned a little. I wonder how long I will feel alarmed at any indication of Heiland soldiery.

  But of course it was not her father’s Knights approaching, but only Twyla, carrying a slender coat of mail and livery in her arms.

  “I slept too deeply,” Adria explained aloud, to Twyla’s apologetic face, lit by a single soft candle.

  Twyla smiled wryly. “I should think it a welcome change, Highness. How long has it been.”

  “Fair enough,” Adria admitted, stretching her arms. As the maid lay the armor upon the dressing table carefully, Adria murmured uncertainly, “This is considered dress for sea?”

  Twyla shrugged. “Steward Falk had it sent up for you, so I assume it is what all the seaworthy swags are wearing this season.”

  “Very amusing,” Adria sighed dryly as she slid onto the floor rug beside the bed. She yawned once, eying the heavy coat of chain as Twyla swept it again into an over-encumbered dance pirouette.

  “Oh, Sir Knight, you are simply dashing in your fine mail. Tell me, is it the salt water winds that have rusted it so, or has this merely become the fashion in the north?” Twyla laughed, then started as the candle in her hand nearly fell from its holder.

  “My one day returned, and my maid nearly sets my room on fire.” Adria shook her head. “Do please be careful...”

  Twyla set the candle and the mail down and pouted. “Her one day returned, and my mistress awakens in a foul mood, immune to my once-lauded wit and charm.”

  Adria smiled, placating. “If we’re sailing the wide and windy seas simply to attend a Kelmantian ball, I will be pleasantly surprised. Perhaps the sailors and Knights aboard will even be able to tutor me in the current dances of the royal courts, and we’ll find our arms and armor merely ceremonial.”

  Twyla answered, now more soberly, “I think that is the reason for your mail in the first place. To show you’re part of the same... ceremony.”

  Adria blinked, considering a moment, then shook her head. “I will stand with them, but I am not one of them. I have not been knighted, and they will all know the difference as well as I. I am a woman, and recently an exile. Dressing as one of them will be… a mockery of their order.”

  “I am... surprised you have such respect.” Twyla said.

  Adria waved the implication away with a gesture. “Thank Falk for his considerate gift, but I am certain it is his alone. I imagine that everyone knows exactly how I dressed upon entering the keep. Bring these to me. Anything else I will have to earn from them with their respect, and they from me.”

  Twyla nodded, and then waited a moment before answering, “I will do as you ask, and with all respect. But our time grows short together, Adria. I am not Steward Falk, and I am not your brother. I would ask you not speak to me as if I were.”

  “I...” Adria blinked, a bit confused, and waved her hand, dismissive. “I only wanted you to communicate my reasons.”

  Twyla shook her head. “No. You are trying to justify yourself.”

  Adria stretched her arms above her head and frowned her doubt.

  “You are cross today, Adria Idonea,” Twyla sighed. “It is not how you should want to leave, and not how you must join your brother.”

  Adria nodded.

  Twyla had certainly not finished. “You have refused the mail, whatever the reason, and I fully agree it is the best decision. And I understand you wish me, and Falk, and anyone and everyone else to understand why. But consider this... you are neither a knight, as you have said, nor is your presence likely wholly welcome.”

  Adria could not have interrupted if she wished.

  “What you are is royal, and an heir to this kingdom. This is what they must understand, and it will not happen by words alone. They must respect you before they can understand you. And they must learn this in the absence of justification. If any Knight needs justification to draw his blade or raise his shield in your defense, then you will be alone.”

  For a moment, Adria could very much see the image of Kaye in her daughter’s expression, the set of her shoulders, the strength of her words. Every bit her mother, and… something more.

  “A prince needs no justification,” Twyla concluded. “A prince is born a prince, and so long as she acts as one, she will prove herself one.”

  There was a moment of silence between them. Then, they both realized they had crossed their arms, and then both moved to uncross them, and the silence and tension was broken again with laughter.

  “I shall miss you, Twyla,” Adria sighed. “Even more, this time.”

  “Only one day returned.” Twyla smiled, wrinkling her nose. “And already I am abandoned.”

  Adria nodded, embracing her friend. “It’s not too late, Twyla… come with me…”

  “My true friend and mistress,” Twyla said. “And who would keep your home safe for you?”

  Adria nodded, happily, sadly, as they broke their embrace.

  “Please promise me,” Twyla nodded as well, smoothing Adria’s hair. “One day, return.”

  The winds from Mount Chancer scraped the cobblestones clean. The bare stars shone startling bright in the pre-dawn cold. The withered black tree and fountain of the stony apples of her childhood — some of these, all of these, brought an old song to Adria’s lips.

  She hummed the low part, then whistled the high part which followed, but she did not take up the words as she wound her way out of the citadel and through the city on the steed Falk had loaned her at the stables.

  Adria passed the harbor gate without hindrance and made her way down the torch-lit switch backs and along the river road which led to the inner bay, where all but the largest of vessels might dock when approaching the castle.

  She relished this last time to herself, the final moments in the land of her birth and life so far.

  The Knights had been readying themselves in the courtyard, though neither Hafgrim nor any of the Sisterhood seemed to have been among them. Adria had drawn little notice from them, and certainly none of them had invited her to join them.

  Though it might have benefited her to make their acquaintance early, Adria had done nothing to invite or initiate the possibility. Still Aesidhe-clad, she had refused not only the mail, but any of the offered Heiland garb. And she even rode full in the saddle, instructing Falk to make the change. Though an act half-scandalous for a Heiland female, he had, to his credit, taken her instruction without hesitation.

  It comforted Adria to remain as she was, and she realized that this, more than the reasons she had given to Twyla in her officious proclamation, was her reason for not yet adapting. Her pack lay behind her, just as she had brought it, her black bow and quiver strapped beside, and her Moresidhe-made blades sheathed at her belt and boot.

  She had made two concessions to Falk’s ministrations, however — opposite her Aesidhe weapon hung an Aeman long sword, its grip wrapped in gold wire, and in her pouch beside this she had put a bag of Heiland coins, a pragmatism which she might otherwise have neglected.

  To her right, the still-dark countryside was dotted with a few points of light from those who arose before dawn in the hamlets, camps, and toll stations along the roads and paths in the valley below Windberth. Adria focused on the horizon, imagined she could still see the deep forests of the South, though she knew better, even were the still snow-covered Steps of Amos not in the way.

  My last chance, she realized. I can le
ave this horse tied to a torch post for the Knights to find when they descend. I could disappear into the darkness and rejoin the People. I could say that my brother would not see me, and speak the truth.

  She smiled at her whimsy, for it was nothing more. An Aeman mind might accept such words as truth, but not an Aesidhe mind.

  Even a child’s promise must be realized by the adult she becomes, Adria thought, turning her head back down the road to where the lanterns of the harbor and its ships grew nearer. Whether Hafgrim would see me or not... whether he would have me at his side or not.

  Soon Adria could see that her brother and the Sisters had gone ahead, as was probably appropriate, and stood waiting upon the dock beside the gangway of The Echo, a somewhat larger vessel among several now docked in harbor — and not the only one hastening to ready itself for the first tide, which Adria knew had to be measured with some care.

  Adria dismounted near their group, then unstrapped her pack from the saddle, shouldering it as a dock hand led the steed to a crane ready to raise him up and lower him into the hold of the ship.

  The three Sisters first commanded Adria’s attention, robed in violet, cloaked in fine heavy black furs, with diplomatic white sashes and trim. Despite the uncertain light of a few torches and lanterns, Adria could see that they were young, so much so that Adria was forced to disguise her surprise as she turned her attention to her brother.

  He was in full ceremonial dress, as Twyla had put it — not merely the mail, tabard, and cloak of a Knight of Darkfire, but with a half-plate suit covering his torso, arms, and thighs, and even a plumed helm, crownless, cradled in his arm. He had grown strong enough to wear this armor well, and betrayed no discomfort with the weight that was usually reserved for imminent battle or tournament melee.

  He wishes to mark himself as more than a knight, when even this status is all too fresh.

  They exchanged nothing more than a careful nod just then, and Adria turned her attention to the nearest of the group, a sailor with the markings of a naval captain, and the only one present with more than twenty-five years of life behind him — and probably twice that, in fact.